


Like Son, Like Mother

by Bazylia_de_Grean



Series: Adra Bán [8]
Category: Pillars of Eternity
Genre: Gen, more like Thaos' next incarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2019-02-01 22:44:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12714336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bazylia_de_Grean/pseuds/Bazylia_de_Grean
Summary: She looks at the burden in her arms and thinks that it is unfair, that now she knows and the Watcher was right – and then wrong, why, why so wrong? Ah, but she knows that, too. Nothing blinds as much as love. She used that, too, and now is the time for justice. Ah, ah, how Woedica must be laughing, to be that triumphant even in defeat.





	Like Son, Like Mother

**Author's Note:**

> (prompt: Grieving Mother, mourning, future)

Life in Dyrford is peaceful enough, with the Skaenites gone and the new mayor. She is not sure if a dead god is better, but Eothas is certainly a less bloody deity, at least. Not that she has ever cared that much about gods; her vocation is what the faithful of Hylea consider sacred, but for her it is simply natural, as breathing. She supposes she might be invisible to the gods as well as to kith, perhaps with the exception of Wael. Who else could have littered her life with so many unanswered questions?

And sometimes it is better that way. Too much knowledge is a burden, she knows. Carries it inside ever since meeting the Watcher, who looked into her mind and showed her what she had been trying to forget, had been trying to convince herself it had not been real, trying so hard she almost believed it. But the walls of blessed ignorance have crumbled down, and she must carry her memories again. Sometimes, the Watcher said, sometimes knowledge and memories are the worst punishment of all. She asked the Watcher to take those memories away, but the Watcher refused. Merciful for all but her own mistakes – and similar mistakes made by others. A baptism of fire, that is what the Watcher is. Some survived. Some did not. That Magranite priest should be proud – would be, if he had not perished as well.

But she is skilled with the use of her mind, and she can make herself forget, during the day, at least. At night, there are dreams. Empty-eyed children she has forced into the arms of their unsuspecting mothers, the love she had kindled in so many women, the happiness that has been just an illusion. For the children, all for the children. Had they ever been children, in the first place, without their souls? She had given false hope, and for what? She wakes from those dreams screaming, wakes to the blissful silence of her empty house.

And then one morning, it is a child’s cry that wakes her. At first it seems just a dream, too, another nightmare, but the high-pitched cries tear through the silence and shatter it, until she comes to and realises it is dawning, and that is not a dream.

There is a sudden cold shiver down her spine, and a tightness in her chest she recognises as dread. Why should she be afraid of a child? Ah, so many, many reasons. Memories. Knowledge.

When she opens the door and glances down, she already knows what she will find. These things happen sometimes, in villages and towns, and cities alike, she supposes. A child given into the care of a local midwife, instead of being abandoned for the local wildlife to deal with it. More merciful, probably. But she has no right to speak of mercy.

The moment she looks at the child, it stops crying. It is too young to do so, but it is looking back at her, with its eyes and mind alike. A gifted cipher, if it will live that long. If he will live that long. It is a boy, with the most innocent face she has ever seen – as it is with every infant – and beautiful eyes, deep and dark and clear like mountain lakes. Eyes that could charm any mother into loving him. Eyes that will one day break many hearts.

She is cold and shivering and scared of her own thoughts. Death. She wants to kill him, to smother his mind with her own, before it reaches its full capacity. He should not be alive. She can see his soul, an empty, pure vessel, like crystal or glass – except that there are cracks all across it, mended and filled but visible all the same, they will always be visible, there is nothing in the world that could make this soul whole again, and even if it was shattered, the shards would never fit with anything else and would always hurt the bearer. This soul – this soul – the Watcher’s most merciful decision, the Watcher’s most grave error. She could not understand why the Watcher refused to take away her memories, but now she looks at the boy’s innocent face and she _knows_. A blasphemy, she has never been devout but knows it for a blasphemy.

She recoils, from the child and her own thoughts. That is what she grieves over the most – those dark thoughts she will never be able to root out of her mind. But she cannot leave the child out there to die, no matter how much she wishes to. _This_ is her punishment, not dreams, not memories – not those she thought – but this, the knowledge and memories that had been taken from _him_ , but she remembers and she knows, she will always remember. She has no choice but to care for this child, but she will never be able to love it. Unless...

She lifts the basket carefully and brings it home. Reaches inside a drawer and pulls out a string of small adra chimes and wraps it around her wrist. Then takes the child, holds it against her breast and does what she has done so many times for other mothers. It works, almost. If she does it often enough, it will eventually work. What would a cipher be worth if they could not command their own minds?

The boy is asleep in her arms, and for a moment she feels it, not joy or happiness, but that warmth, kisses the dark fluff on the tiny head and for a few heartbeats they are nothing else but a child and its mother.

Adhán, she thinks calmly, that will be a good name. Fire. Like the Watcher’s fire. Perhaps it would cleanse him.

With that, the illusion is gone, dispelled all too suddenly. She looks at the burden in her arms and thinks that it is unfair, that now she knows and the Watcher was right – and then wrong, why, why so wrong? Ah, but she knows that, too. Nothing blinds as much as love. She used that, too, and now is the time for justice. Ah, ah, how Woedica must be laughing, to be that triumphant even in defeat.

She puts the child back into its basket and carries it to the kitchen. The boy does not wake when she lights the fire, boils water, makes breakfast – as if her mere presence soothed him. It is a cipher thing, she knows. She remembers.

It is also a cipher thing that one day – sooner than she expects, everything always happens too soon – he will discover that the woman he considers his mother has never loved him. And perhaps he will be glad of that discovery.

In due time – earlier than she thinks – she will write to Dunryd Row, send him away for training, and they both will be happy with that. Or relieved, at least. Sometimes the kindest thing two people can do for each other is to leave.

She is not going to send him to Caed Nua, but he will probably end up there anyway. Time will come for the Watcher to pay, too. Even if she would rather let the Watcher live in peace. But it is not her choice to make.

For now, there are more immediate concerns. She will have to talk to the mayor, and there will probably be some asking and an investigation – never thorough enough to yield any information, not really. They will have to find a family name for the boy – maybe there were some travellers in the town recently, maybe a Glanfathan hunter, maybe some adventurers killed in the woods – they will keep looking until they find something. And life will go its way. She will ask the local women for old baby clothes and a bottle, will have to get some milk and diapers, will have to do many little things that will keep her hands busy and her mind clear.

At the moment, she has nothing more to do that sit and wait for sunrise and the rest of the village to wake up. She stares at the dying flames, and at the sleeping child, and for the first time she mourns _saving_ a life.


End file.
